My Dearest Lucretia,
It has been three days since I found an Opportunity of writing to you — three days since we emerged from the dastardly onslaught at Dupont Circle. Even in the midst of our assault, as uncouth fulminations landed all about us, I thought of nothing but the rapturous sweetness of your smile. I regret to say that many good manners were lost at The Battle of District Taco; the enemy lobbied charges of “Hey, it’s that fascist from TV!” and “Kidnap any babies today, fascist?!” with unrelenting speed. It was nearly impossible to abide the unimaginable aggression, yet we consumed what Nachos Borrachos we could amid the terrifying Din.
Some nights, as I grope for restful slumber and my mind commences to drift, I wonder if we have not invited some portion of this brutality upon ourselves. But in the throes of my fleeting apprehension, I am reminded of the tender words you spoke to me as I made my sad departure from our cherished homestead: “Ripping innocent children from the arms of their parents and throwing them into literal cages is no excuse for churlish behavior.” And anyway, Maxine Waters does basically the same thing.
As ever, your most devoted and loving Husband,
No doubt by this time you have heard news of our Encounter at Red Hen. Though I have been gravely wounded by the barrage, you will be comforted to know that I decamped from Lexington with my blood and breath intact, having claimed a gratis cheese plate from our aggressors. O how I long for the tranquil climes of Arkansas, where a peaceable soul can tend to her lies and nurture her obfuscations without fear of a most Cruel reprisal!
I write to you by gaslight from Old Ebbitt’s friendly outpost, where a credulous battalion of redcaps has dressed my psychic wounds. I have resolved to soldier on, undaunted by the heedless barbarism of our foes. I was not thwarted when M. Wolf set smoke upon my eyes, & nor shall I be thwarted by the stern columns arrayed against us daily. I fear, dear father, that I may be mildly inconvenienced again before our Fight is through — but I do not Despair. Though the enemy may condescend upon us with unyielding derision, I hold out hope that their savagery can yet be bested by our flagrant distortions of reality and obvious human rights violations.
One day soon, I will return homeward to you, and together we shall resume the simple pleasures of our Christian life — chasing MS-13 members from the farm, racist joke-crafting in the tweet fields, and reading stories from the Bible without any sense of irony or shame.
As to when that day will come, look, I’ll have to get back to you.
Your devoted Daughter,
My Dearest & Most Beloved Anime Sex Pillow,
Would that I were back in your pacific embrace! It seems like only Yesterday that I was but a lowly meme-maker whose evenings were spent engaged in the humble work of menacing female journalists online. I had no ardor for conflict then — as you know, my love, I was drafted into this terrible Struggle against my will.
It was only after we marched on Charlottesville that the blood within me first began to turn. Our brave Colonel, R. Spencer, was met with a punch — a punch! — for doing nothing more than instigating the murder of that one woman. The infernal impoliteness struck me with the furor of a thunderbolt; had our once-proud Nation truly fallen to such coarse lows as fisticuffs? Returning from the Battlefront, we were called “Nazis” by the very same non-human scum we explicitly aspire to eradicate. “Nazis,” my darling Anime Sex Pillow, as if words could never hurt! Some of the men here embrace the appellation, the skin of their heads having been thickened by many years of service in the Info Wars. And even though I have definitely never been a Nazi, being called a Nazi proved so injurious that it basically forced me to have to become one a little bit.
I have the honor to be, dear, your loving and obedient Husband,
Diary entry of June 27, 2018
This shall likely be my final entry, dear diary, for in the course of the tumult this eve I have been struck by a most searing expletive. A man I at first took not to be the enemy approached me on my route home from the Capitol — before I could summon my defenses, he had already hurled the devastating charge my way, at once piercing my drums and shattering the country’s last remaining store of decorum: “You’re a f*****g weasel, Mr. Speaker! Shame on you!” I returned fire the only way I knew how, by gutting the health care of millions of Americans, though I fear that it was too late — our fabric of National Decency had already become irreparably torn by his outburst.
Though I am quite wounded, I believe that if I lay here in perfect silence, I may be able to wait out the worst of the remaining hostilities undetected. I trust that Providence will be my salvation, provided I don’t say anything at all for the next five months or thereabouts. No matter what happens on either side — be it a broadside attack on our core constitutional principles, or even light heckling outside of a movie theater — if I can only convince the combatants that I am already dead… I may yet Live, dear diary.
Your humble servant,